


A Gift of A Dream

by QuillMind



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Character Death In Dream, Coma, Drama, Gen, Memory Related, One Shot, Sentimental, Tearjerker, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillMind/pseuds/QuillMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place between AC:R and AC3. Desmond Miles has vicariously lived the lives of his ancestors and experienced all that they have. After seeing Altaïr's end, he wonders if he cannot give him something better using the Apple of Eden. A very sentimental one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift of A Dream

Desmond Miles had no sense of time.

Inside the nondescript van that he, Shaun, Rebecca and William had been traveling in, there was no source of natural light, the back windows blacked out to shield from prying eyes. It was probably night time now, since there had been bright sunlight when the back doors were last opened a while back, but the actual amount of time that passed since then could have been twelve minutes just as easily as twelve hours.

When Desmond had woken up from his comatose state earlier, his teammates had breathed a sigh of relief for his safety before going back to their duties with renewed fervor. Desmond had wanted to help, but all he could produce was a thin, weak assertion. He was still drained from his ordeal, and his limbs felt as though they were composed of lead.

Rebecca firmly insisted he stay put. "I know you don't exactly love being in this thing," she had said, motioning to the Animus chair, "but you need to take it easy and rest for now."

Even Shaun had to agree. "If you haven't got any energy, you won't be of any use to us, and you don't want to give me the satisfaction of that, do you?"

Rebecca gave Shaun a look and lightly smacked his arm.

In truth, after being faced with the possibility of getting his brain deleted and turning into a drooling vegetable, Desmond was happy to hear Shaun's jibes in the waking world. He gave the spectacled man a tired smile and replied simply, "No, I wouldn't."

Rebecca, Shaun and William had then exited the van. There was much work to be done before they could set off into the Grand Temple.

Now Desmond sat back in the Animus chair, alone in the quiet darkness. Currently the only illumination within the vehicle came from four sources: the computer monitors, the chair of the Animus which were hooked up to medical equipment that had until just recently been keeping Desmond on life support, the golden shimmer of the Apple of Eden sitting on a desk, and the ice-blue glow within Desmond's right arm.

He tried to ignore his arm, for it was futile to try to understand what had happened to it, but it was difficult. The light swirled over the mysterious symbols like water, fading and brightening rhythmically as if tuned to his heartbeat. He recalled feeling once that his left arm carried some kind of invisible weight—the weight of being an Assassin.

 _A killing arm on one side, an alien technology-infused arm on the other-does that balance the weirdness out?_ Desmond thought dryly.

It was the left arm where Assassins wore their bracer that sheathed the hidden blade, the blade that so many had to sacrifice a finger to wield. There was something almost funny about the fact that the digit that had to be severed was the ring finger. That sacrifice was no longer necessary, but once Desmond still felt a tightness around his forearm that was more than just the physical constriction of the bracer.

_For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, til death do us part._

The life of an Assassin was a life of loss, a commitment that did not relent in old age, and followed you to the end of your days. Why did he have to be shackled with such a burden, Desmond used to wonder in his youth. At the very least, soldiers ventured across oceans and visited a myriad of locales as they prepared to confront their enemy. He, on the other hand, had spent his entire life at the Farm, with bland food and boring teachings about the ongoing battle between Templars and Assassins practically beaten into his mind, while never once going beyond the confines of the compound, and never seeing a face to go with the enemy that had been talked about like some sort of bogeyman entity.

An eagle caged was an eagle doomed to die. So he escaped when he could, and when he had finally had made his way out of the compound, every part of his body tingled with joy that threatened to burst out of him. He was finally free from his prison, and spread his wings to explore the world before him—only to eventually be caught again, this time by the very enemy he had been told about all his life.

Ever since then, each day had been a dizzying experience—being forced into the Animus and diving into countries and eras that he would have previously only known through movies and books. How many others could say they knew what it was like to walk in the Holy Land during the Crusades, or see everyday life of Florence, Italy in the fifteenth century?

_I know the arid, hot air of Jerusalem, how the glaring rays of the sun bleach buildings white while the wind plays with the dust and sand of the boisterous city and obscures people's vision. I know the fortress of Masyaf, alive with the sound of clashing swords and men shouting as they go about their daily training regimen, and the occasional approving cry of an eagle flying overhead. In the marketplace of Damascus, vendors called out to people to see their wares; vibrantly coloured fabrics, nuts and dried fruits, earthy spices, jewelry, and so much more beckoned to be seen, touched, smelled, tasted, and heard._

_I know this because Altaïr knew this._

_The red-tiled roofs of Firenze's buildings always made a pleasing clacking sound when you ran over them, almost as pleasing as the sound of hoof beats on the paths as you rode your horse through the Toscana countryside. Venezia during Carnevale was always a captivating place, where dresses and doublets of silk rustled as the masked men and women danced to the festive music, so drunk on the party atmosphere that they nearly missed seeing the amazing fireworks display in the night sky, already crowded with stars. I know the majestic aura of Roma, accented with red, the colour of power, rage, and love. I know the textured feel of the pages upon pages of sketches and notes that Leonardo da Vinci left scattered in his workshop, cluttered with paintings and fantastic engineering projects. I know the matchless sunrise that can be seen from the villa at San Gimignano._

_I know this because Ezio knew this._

Ezio Auditore. The one that Desmond had first "met" as a crying newborn, much later a weathered veteran of his creed, speaking directly to him from the depths of the secret library.

" _Who are we, who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? To speak across centuries? Maybe you will answer all the questions I have asked. Maybe you will be the one to make all this suffering worth something in the end."_

The Italian Assassin's words had struck Desmond hard and resonated heavily like a bell. _Blessed?_ He had never thought of being an Assassin as something to describe as blessed. For so long it had been an annoying curse, the worst kind of inheritance possible.

After the Animus, that description had only been reinforced; while he had learned the skills of Master Assassins in a fraction of the time normally required, every emotion felt by his ancestors had been condensed into him as well. Would Ezio truly describe the connection the three of them had as "blessed" if he knew that Desmond had been sharing everything he and Altaïr had done in their lives as easily as one does a pair of shoes?

The seething frustration and humiliation when Altaïr was demoted.

The blinding rage and sorrow from witnessing the wrongful execution of the Auditores.

The bitter loathing from Malik that later became a fraternal bond.

Making love to Cristina, her beautiful body in his arms; and many years later holding her again, only this time she was breathing her last breath, the both of them shedding tears.

They were all felt by Desmond as raw and freshly as if they were truly his own experiences. This not only gave him the uncomfortable sense of being the most invasive voyeur in the world, but was also at times mentally and emotionally crushing, to endure two extra lifetimes' worth of grief and pain.

 _"_ _For in much wisdom is much grief; and_ _he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow_."

_"What is a man but the sum of his memories? We are the stories we live! The_ _tales we tell ourselves!"_

Desmond has only taken from his ancestors. Never given back. He would never have existed without them, but cannot exist where and when they did, cannot apologize to or thank them.

It seemed callous to think so, but at the very least, Ezio had a peaceful death in the heart of Florence, having lived many happy years with his wife and children; Altaïr had spent his last moments locked in a cold basement, finally dying completely alone. All so he could guard the damn Apple.

Desmond then turned his head to the Apple on the desk, glowing as innocuously as a bedside lamp. At first glance no one would ever guess it was capable of bringing forth such strife.

Surely something so powerful could do at least one thing good.

_"Have you anything to teach us? Or would you lead us all to ruin?"_

_I'm not asking to change the past. I know that everything that lives must eventually die._

_I just want him to meet a good end._

Then the Apple flared up, and a golden light rivaling the sun's filled up the van.

* * *

Distantly, Altaïr felt the chill of the Masyaf library gripping at his body-the warmth of the last embrace he had shared with his son Darim had already faded-but it did not bother him much. When you knew with all certainty that you were at the end of your long journey, such things were barely a nuisance.

He had lived longer than most people could hope to. Even with his constantly maintained physical condition and rigorous Assassin training, Altaïr secretly admitted amazement that his life had endured for the decades it had. Hunger, disease, and warfare had never sunken their claws into him, though those around him had not been as fortunate.

But his turn had come, and Altaïr was ready. Sitting in the dark stone library that would be his tomb, with the shining memory seal in his hands, he was no longer a legendary killer or leader of hundreds, just an old man awaiting death.

If he were not so tired and weary, he might have felt anxious. Scared, even, of what awaited him on the other side. The scholars' depiction of Hell? Or, as he had often theorized, just an empty void...

A sudden brightness emanated from behind him, and Altaïr turned in his chair. From between the minute cracks in the hidden door, light poured forth furiously as though intent on destroying the stone barrier. Altaïr's attention fell to his hand where the seal was also gleaming intensely, as if resonating with the Apple of Eden that was behind the door. When the light became too much to bear, he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut.

Altaïr was alert and yet in a fog. He saw the azure sky drifting clouds and the familiar, hilly landscape in the distance. The cool breeze deflected the heat of the sun on his skin and brought the scent of grass and dust to his nostrils.

There was no mistaking where he was, yet he was unable to comprehend how he had gotten here or why.

Even more oddly, it did not matter to him all.

Ordinarily he would have caught onto the sound of someone walking up to him from behind well before they were within range of attacking him. The assailant in this case was making no attempt at stealth, steadily striding through the tall grass towards him with purpose.

But this was not an ordinary case.

It was all right. He had nothing to fear.

"Altaïr."

The hand that landed on his shoulder was gentle, but firm enough to be reassuring. That was her way. He turned to face her, his anchor to sanity.

 _"Maria."_ He breathed her name like a prayer. When he raised his arms to cup her face, he noticed that his hands were no longer crinkled and worn, but as smooth and strong as hers that now caressed him. The aged forms they had grown into together were gone, to reveal the young bodies they had back when they first met so many decades ago.

Energy seized him, and he kissed her lips, inhaling her into his lungs as though such an act could preserve her forever. She hummed pleasurably in response.

When they finally drew apart, Maria smiled warmly at Altaïr, and took his hands in hers. "Come on, everyone's waiting." She took a step back to let him see.

The Assassin's breath caught in his throat. Before him in the wide expanse were Sef, Kadar, and Malik, beautifully alive and whole, far cries from how they had last left the world. Further beyond the familiar faces were a couple, a man and a woman; they were too far away for their faces to be clear to Altaïr, and yet through some strange feeling he knew they were people known to him.

He faced Maria again. "We walk together," he said to her as he gripped her hand firmly.

She leaned in to rest her head against his should before returning the grip, rubbing her thumb over his. "Now and forevermore," she agreed.

Everything moved a little slower then, as Altaïr, holding his wife's hand, began to make his way towards his family. The colours became brighter, the sounds rang clearer-everything he perceived was utter beauty and joy. Cool logic would have picked at the edges of this scene and dissected its perfection, questioned the odd, golden lines that zipped through the air here and there, but logic did not have a place here, in this gift of a dream.

 _Peaceful._ It was the last sense Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad experienced, before he ceased to be among the living.

And he would not, could not, ever know it, but centuries after his death, thousands of miles away, his descrndant would be shedding fresh tears for him, having just witnessed his final moments.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, so this story is quite the relic-I'd begun writing it after finishing AC:R, back in 2011. Before finishing it I'd hit a dry spell and left it on hold until now, and I almost considered trashing it, but figured might as well tie up loose ends and put it out there, and see if readers like it (I hope you do!)
> 
> The inspiration for this came from Altaïr's death in the game, which felt so sad and lonely that I felt compelled to go 180 on it and give him a happier end, even if only in his final moments. It's very sentimental, nay, downright sappy, I realize, but that's how the muse struck me. :/
> 
> The side effects of the Animus' bleeding effect were always of interest to me, though I never felt they quite got into the details of them as much as I would have liked. I think the psychological ramifications of living another's life would be extremely trying, especially if the lives are filled with violence and tragedy as the Assassins' would be.


End file.
